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Thursday, October 29, 2015

Transcendental. The Boston Marathon: April 21st, 2014

Goals.  We all have them.  And if those goals mean enough, you invest everything into accomplishment: every day, every decision, every breath.  Every single breath.

I realize that this post is a few weeks overdue, but I struggled with how to translate my emotions from the Boston Marathon into written words.  I want you to all feel like you were right there with me, because trust me, your spirit and positive energy were by my side for every step.

When we boarded the plane to Boston from LAX the Saturday before the race, I wasn't quite sure how I was supposed to feel.  It seemed as though nearly the entire plane was comprised of runners and their family members, and everyone had that same blank look upon their face.  Considering the tragic events of last April, how were we expected to feel?  Sad? Angry? Anxious? Scared? Excited?  I know we were all still mourning for those innocent spectators who were injured or worse.  I know we were all still fiercely angry over the attempt to maim our tight-knit running community.  I know we were all anxious and a bit frightened to see how this year's race would unfold, in spite of the added security.  And of course we were all excited; we worked extremely hard to qualify or raise the required funds for a charitable cause.  We deserved to feel excited!  But yet, I sensed that not one of us was certain how we were supposed to feel.

From the first step off the plane, we were greeted by signs like this.  Boston was ready.

We landed in Boston and easily made our way to the hotel, the Intercontinental on the harbor.  We had made our reservations months prior with Marathon Tours and Travel, and I highly recommend their easy to use and affordable services.  Our hotel was beautiful, well-staffed with friendly employees and conveniently located next to a "T" (light rail) station as well as an abundance of restaurants, shops and bars within walking distance. 

Iconic Boston.

The next morning (Sunday) we took the T to Copley Square then walked the quarter mile to the Expo at 9 AM, just as the doors opened.  The sun was shining, warming our bodies in the chilly Atlantic air.  Silently I absorbed all of the sights along the walk, places I recognized from the countless documentaries I had been watching about the bombing: Marathon Sports, the Forum Restaurant, the finish line.  Several homemade memorials had been placed precisely where the explosions occurred and hundreds of people were there taking pictures.  My skin felt icy and the hairs on my arms and neck tingled.  My eyes welled up.  I felt sadness.

No more hurting people.  Peace.

We took our time exploring the expo, wandering through all of the booths and chatting up vendors.  I met up with Rob, one of the owners of INK n BURN, caught a glimpse of Dean Karnazes, and spent a small fortune on official Adidas Boston Marathon 2014 paraphenalia (seriously, will it be this expensive every year or was it a "first time doing Boston" thing?).  The expo was so expansive, it was dispersed between three levels of the convention center, so we took the escalator up to the top floor, where packet pickup was staged.  I trembled as I accepted my bib number (15075) and official "Runner Passport".  A year had passed since I qualified for Boston at the Eugene Marathon.  I recalled the effort I put into taking over 40 minutes off of my PR to obtain that and again tears clung to the corners of my eyes.  I felt excited.

Exploring the expo, very clever Brooks!

Bib pickup.  Earned.

From there I took the T back to the hotel room to just relax.  Later that evening we met up with our entire group for dinner in Little Italy, followed by a Red Sox game.  Thirty minutes prior to the game, a memorial presentation took place in recognition of the heroes from the bombing incident to include physicians, nurses, police, firemen and women, the 415 injured spectators and runners, and family members of those who lost their lives.  Bagpipes provided the soundtrack to a moving tribute and for the third time since arriving in Boston I found myself moved to tears.

Speechless at this moment, as an entire stadium mourns together.

The family of Lingzi Lu, who came from China to celebrate the anniversary of her tragic passing, shouted the customary "Play Ball!" and I thought to myself how ironic yet fitting that act was.  Lingzi died that day in an act of terror that shook the iconic pinnacle of road running, the Boston Marathon, yet the overall force of human spirit and perseverance prevailed, not just through Boston but globally.  The family of Lingzi Lu came all the way from China to proclaim those opening words to the classic American game of baseball, and by doing so, they announced that the show must go on, for Lingzi, for all of the victims, for Boston, and for the world.

Though I no longer live in the Pacific Northwest where I grew up, the group I toured Boston with included friends from our hometown in Washington state.  Twenty years ago, when I ran for the High School track team, my friend Franzine ran the same distances for the "rival" school.  We continued our virtual friendship through college, marriage, babies and career changes, bonded by our mutual love of running.  Last year we made a pact that we would qualify for Boston, and we did just that, a week apart, at different marathons, but with just seconds between our finishing times of 3:27.  Franzine and her husband put a lot of effort into organizing our weekend and we were so thankful to finally be there in person with them, laughing our way through the three days.  In addition to them, our group included her running partner Tiffany, and several friends from home that just wanted to be there for the magic that is the Boston Marathon.  Our friend Josh was so moved by the events of last year that he qualified on his very first attempt at running a marathon, however, due to the abundance of applicants for this year's race, he failed to obtain a bib by less than fifteen seconds.  He was heartbroken, yet was there for us anyways, cheering and laughing and crying.  I am so thankful for that; his selfless spirit motivated me to work even harder.  Josh, you WILL be there in 2015!

Franzine and I cannot get enough of Boston.

After inning four, those of us that were running returned to the hotel to relax and get some sleep before race day.  I answered an abundance of texts and facebook messages wishing me luck, however, it was strange that everyone included the phrase "be safe" interlaced with their well wishes.  Those words are never exchanged before running a race, they seemed out of place yet nevertheless welcome.  I fell asleep anxious for the events to come the next day yet comforted by the support from friends and family.

Traditionally, the Boston Marathon has a much later starting time than most marathons, as evidenced by my 6 AM alarm versus the usual 3 AM setting.  I nervously got dressed and felt a tinge of fear as I kissed my husband goodbye. I thought about couples murmuring those same words to each other on the morning of the 2013 marathon, never to have the opportunity to exchange them again, or having to wait hours before they were assured that each other was safe. I shook the dark thoughts from my head then met the girls to ride the T to Copley Square where we caught our bus that would take us an hour away to the starting line in Hopkinton.  Along the way we laughed about how we were about to run the long route back to Boston.  One of the most striking aspects of this race hit me like a punch to the stomach as we exited the bus at Athlete's Village and were met by a long line of the National Guard, clad in camouflage and each possessing a firearm.  This was a disturbing image at a typically harmless event.  Still their presence calmed us.

Entering Athlete's Village with 35,000 of my new best friends.

We went through security checkpoint number two upon entering Athlete's Village and came upon tent after tent after tent after porta potty after porta potty after porta potty, the "village" taking up what seemed like three football fields of grassy space.  A sea of runners were strewn about, stretching and quietly conversing and harnessing their nervous energy.  We were provided with bagels, banana, energy gel, water, coffee and tea, and entertainment came in the form of a DJ and jumbo tron.  Just prior to the announcement of the elite and wave one starting, a formation of four Army Helicopters provided a flyby of the entire course, acting both as a symbolic display of our country's strength, and a literal show of force.  Thirty minutes after the elites and wave one started the race, the DJ announced that is was wave two's turn to make the half mile trek to the starting line.  We removed our "throw away" sweats and discarded them onto the mountainous pile that was to be donated to the Boys' and Girls' Club of Boston.  

Never ending porta-potties highlighted by a four-helicopter Army flyby.

Throw-away sweats off, ready to race!  Franzine, me and Tiffany.

I was surprised that the starting line was basically in the middle of a neighborhood of quaint brick houses.  Generations of families were out for this yearly event, boasting gourmet BBQs, well-stocked coolers and endless encouraging signs.  One home even had a table set up with "Free hair-ties, Bandaids, Vaseline, Tampons, gummy bears...".  It was as if spectating the Boston Marathon was an event in itself.  We were six minutes late getting to the start so we just simply walked up to the designated starting area and began our journey back to Boylston Street.

Spectating IS a marathon in itself.

From Hopkinton we passed signs stating which town we were entering followed by the year the town was formed, the architecture matching the age designated on the sign.  I was mesmerized by the brick store fronts, decorative columns and town squares.  As expected, the spectators of the Boston Marathon were like nothing I've ever encountered at a race before.  With each mile they grew in number and in decibels.  These selfless fans were not just standing there clapping, they were truly there to encourage every last runner.  I was surrounded with the sounds of, "Run Texas, Run!" and "Go Baltimore Running Club", and "Looking great John!".  Since I was wearing my head-turning (as INKnBURN often is) flag-inspired INKnBURN Patriot tech tee, I was referred to as "America!" throughout the entire race.  The National Guard and hundreds of Police lined every kilometer of the race and the constant buzz of circling helicopters above our heads added an eerie yet consoling presence; despite the thousands of people, we felt safe.

One of the most memorable scenes along the course was the "Meg's Miles" memorial along mile one, a tribute to Meg Menzies, a Boston runner who was killed by a drunk driver while out doing what she loved.  I also recall feeling chills as we rounded a corner to be greeted by the sounds of "America the Beautiful" beckoning us through a rather patriotic neighborhood.  I broke down in tears (yet again) when at another mile a group was playing the Boston anthem "Sweet Caroline" and every single runner threw up their hands mid-stride to belt out the words in unison.

Exactly half way, we came upon Wellesley College and the famous "Wellesley Girls".  Even though mile 13 was entirely uphill, we hardly noticed the ascent as our heads were turned to the right to read each girls "Kiss me I'm..." sign.  Each sign said something unique about the student such as, "Kiss me I'm from Florida!" or "Kiss me I'm a Geology Major!" or "Kiss me I'm a redhead!".  It was amusing watching runners partake in these requests.  I am convinced that every single enrolled student at the college was out to celebrate the day as they stretched along the entire mile, each sign more hilarious than the next.

A few more miles passed and we found ourselves at the infamous Newton Hills, the home of the dreaded "Heartbreak Hill".  Men from nearby Boston College were out with their various Greek Letters, dressed in costumes, playing beer pong (seriously) and offering the runners a refreshing hoppy beverage to help clear our heads of the notorious mile 20 doubtful thoughts.  Never have I given so many high fives in my life.  Heartbreak Hill was a beast, but I expected it to be clearly designated and instead wasn't even sure I had cleared it once we crested its wrath.  The sun was shining and the heat was much more intense than anyone predicted.  I did my best to drink water and Gatorade at every mile's hydration stations but still I felt the woozy combination of exhausted legs and a numb mind. 

The crowds lining the course grew even more dense as we continued through the final 10K of the race, their passion providing an unbelievably loud roar that bellowed us through each rolling hill.  It seemed as if the hills never ended.  I took a deep breath to inhale the pride of Boston, willing us to keep going, to never stop proving that we were invincible.  And finally, we rounded the corner and I saw the finish line.  I left it all on the course and could not find the energy to sprint that last quarter mile stretch.  I was okay with that though, as I knew I would finish with a sub 3:30 time on one of the most emotional and exhausting days I have ever experienced.  The live video feed on the Boston Marathon website caught the high five I gave to the stranger on my right as we finished the most exhilarating race of our lives and my friends and family got to witness that special moment all the way back on the West Coast.  Due to security, we had to walk another quarter mile to obtain our medals and water and refreshments and that walk felt like an eternity.  I passed the time by talking with those who were herded along with me, discussing where we were from and our families, knowing that we would likely never see each other again, yet seamlessly connected by our congruous endorphin rush and by our communal experience on this surreal day. 

Unsure of why I gave the #1s.  Perhaps too tired to raise the remaining 8 fingers?

Emotions: Tired, Relieved, Pride.

After the race we returned to our hotel to shower then met our friends to celebrate the day, grateful for our safety and for our health.  My face was sore from the fixed smile I had worn all day, a welcome malady I'd never experienced after a race before.  We toasted to the magical day, to the spectators, the police, the National Guard and the entire city of Boston with our Sam Adams 26.2 Lager, because after all, that is what you do in Boston.

Can you feel the love here?

The Boston Marathon.  For years I doubted my ability to ever qualify, yet it remained on my bucket list as the apex of road-running accomplishments.  To me, the Boston Marathon represents precisely that: setting lofty goals then proving to yourself that you are indeed capable of exceeding any limitations. For a year I relentlessly worked, reminded of my ambition with every decision to run in the rain, to choose the healthy meal option, to push my limits and get further out of my comfort zone than I ever imagined possible.  I made no excuses.  Moreover, the Boston Marathon proved to the world that the running community is invincible.  We persevered, and across the world, together we celebrated not just the running of 26.2 miles, but the inextinguishable human spirit.  Cheers to that.

A toast to this beautiful life.

Angeles Crest 100: No Mercy, No Problem (August 1st, 2015)

This race recap was originally published here:

August 1st, 2015 I joined 172 other starters at the 28th running of the Angeles Crest 100 Mile Endurance Run in the San Gabriel back country, along the Pacific Crest Trail. The race is one of the six original 100 mile races in the United States, and remains one of the most difficult courses to master, with approximately 22,000 feet of climbing and 25,000 feet of knee-crushing downhill over several rocky and technical mountain peaks in elevations of over 9,000 feet. To further increase the roughness of the conditions, the race takes place in the high heat of the Southern California summer.

AC100 Course Profile

Last year I volunteered over twelve hours working with the Ultra Medical Team at Angeles Crest and that weekend I fell in love with the grittiness of the event. I wanted more than anything to feel the same passion I saw exuding from each runner's eyes. It was for these combined elements that I desperately desired a chance to conquer the beast and earn the coveted AC100 buckle.

Matt and I arrived in Wrightwood on Friday morning to pick up my bib and attend the mandatory pre-race meeting.  We said hello to friends and enjoyed the quaint mountain town atmosphere. Later that evening we grabbed some dinner and loved exploring the farmers' market the town had set up specifically for all the race attendees; we enjoyed a fresh veggie tamale and homemade kettle corn.  Pretty sure we are in this for the food! Then we headed to the hotel for an early sleep followed by an even earlier alarm clock that woke us the next morning.

Race morning I felt humbly confident and prepared.  My mind accepted the fact that I was going to suffer and it would test my every ounce of strength and willpower.  I never doubted my training though, and I was anxious to enjoy the beauty of the trails. I said goodbye to Matt and we were off at 5 AM, heading on asphalt through Wrightwood where dozens of local families stood on porches with full mugs of coffee yelling praises for a successful race. 

The Acorn Trail picked up about a half mile from the start and we began our first of many climbs. I enjoyed the cool dark air, the brilliant full moon, and the chance to slow down and let the legs warm up.  From here we were greeted by a stunning sunrise as we dropped onto a very runnable section of the PCT. I knew if I didn't take advantage of this early less-technical section I would lose valuable time, so I allowed my legs to find a comfortable yet quick rhythm.

The next section involved a 2,800 feet, 41 switchback (seriously!), 3.6 mile climb up Mt. Baden-Powell. At nearly 9,400 feet in elevation, this is the second highest peak in the San Gabriel Mountains, and thus provided gorgeous views of surrounding Mt. Baldy and several other peaks. I recall that the sun beamed down hard during this climb and the heat contributed to a brutal few hours.
Following this climb came more switchbacks and I recall falling three times on the rocky path.  To one side was a sheer several-hundred feet of drop off. The third time I fell I landed hard on jagged rocks, tearing up both knees and hands into a bloody mess, and tossing both of my handhelds down the cliff.  Since this was a long section of over 10 miles between aid stations, and the temperature was hovering above 90 degrees, I knew I couldn't continue without at least one handheld so I carefully hiked a few feet down to obtain the one bottle still within reach.  The other was out of sight at the bottom of the ravine. Despite the blood gushing from my knees and rocks embedded in my hands, I remember laughing as a fellow runner told me I looked like I was "coming out of a mine shaft" as I climbed back onto the trail to continue anxiously on to Matt waiting at the next aid station.

Blissful on the PCT.

From here we entered the most notoriously hot section known as Cooper Canyon, and its reputation was retained.  It was in this hell hole around mile 30 that I did run out of water with two miles to go and I started to bonk. I crammed a few handfuls of Jelly Bellies into my mouth, gritted my teeth, and held on, knowing I would see Matt at the Cloudburst aid station and he would know what to do to get me rehydrated.  Even while suffering through this low point, I still had undying confidence and recognized that this feeling of despair would pass. I was still well ahead of cut off times and knew I could spare time at Cloudburst to replenish and so I did, consuming my beloved seltzer water, diet coke, and leftover fried rice from the previous night's dinner, all from our cooler that Matt had hauled down to the aid station for me.  Fully recovered several moments later, I pressed on.

I am not sure if it was the combination of the scorching sun and rugged terrain or what, but this day was the first time I have ever experienced foot blisters.  Interestingly, after the race, several friends told me they suffered from the same issue. By now, my feet were developing hot spots and I knew I should stop to mend them before it intensified.  At the next aid station (Three Points) I stopped and used one of my race number pins to pop the angry blisters, covered them with bandaids and pushed on in hopes that would be enough. The next several miles were a blur of just one foot in front of the other, repetitive forward motion, GU and Snickers consumption, sips of water and repeat. We climbed up an oven-like blacktop paved section to Mt. Hillyer and it was just a few more miles to the major aid station around mile 54 known as Chilao, where I knew Matt and my first pacer Todd (TBone) would be waiting, and several friends were volunteering, ready to feed us much-needed hot food. Truly, I was lured just knowing I would see their smiling faces. The terrain down to Chilao was delicious in itself though, an interesting maze of elephant-sized sandstone boulders that forced every runner to feel child-like as we bounced up, down and around the meandering intricate trail.
Chilao was indeed an oasis of positive ultra-minded supporters waiting amidst the cool shade of towering Sequoias. I immediately caught Matt's eye and he hustled me to where he had our cooler and supplies set up. TBone was there with his signature huge hug and an In-n-Out Double Double cheeseburger. I swear I let out an audible swoon upon first bite of that SoCal trademark concoction; a much-needed fix for my 54 miles of calorie depletion. Both guys selflessly peeled off my rancid socks and slathered on a fresh layer of foot lube, then rolled on new socks.  We conversed a bit, grabbed our headlamps as we were about to lose the daylight, and together TBone and I checked out of Chilao and went back to work.

Nobody Touch My Double Double!

All I can recall about the next section is several bats scurrying eye-level as we picked our way down the canyon, and the overgrowth of Purple Poodle Dog Bush, an invasive plant similar to Poison Oak that thrives in post-fire ravished environments. We weaved around the Poodle, making sleep-deprived jokes about Poodles, hoping we wouldn't find ourselves covered in welts the next day. From the next aid station we plowed down, down, down and then up, up, up a long fire road which seemed to wrap around another mountain.  In hindsight, I wish I had appreciated this non-rugged terrain more but at this point we were happily in conversation, just enjoying the full moon and checking off miles rather quickly. I continued to fuel well, occasionally choking down a GU or a PayDay and multiple quesadillas at each aid station.

At the "no crew access" Newcomb's Saddle aid station (mile 69ish) I felt great, especially knowing we had just a few more miles to go to the second large aid station called Chantry Flats. One of the most memorable moments of the race occurred here as I was so surprised to hear Matt and my friend Jenny yelling hello to us. I turned around to see a video camera and two large TVs revealing a live feed to Chantry Flats! TBone and I waved and blew kisses and our spirits lifted even further just visualizing the nearby aid station via 2015 ultra race technology. After downing a cup of soup, we were warned that a Mountain Lion had just been spotted a few miles down the trail so we nervously laughed and headed down into the Big Santa Anita Canyon en route to Chantry (mile 75ish). Along the way we frequently made random robotic noises and sang a few childhood camp songs and 90s rap verses at the top of our lungs to ward off this elusive Mountain Lion apparently looming in the soundless midnight stillness.  Our headlamps along with the brightness of the full moon reflected brilliant patterns of light on the cliffs that aligned the trail and it truly was a spectacular sight (or was that my moment of sleep deprivation?). Now deep at the bottom of the canyon, the sheer walls echoed with the sound of a trickling stream and nearby Sturtevant Falls. We never did see the predator but we did catch a green set of owl eyes watching us and an interesting looking white spider of prehistoric proportions.

Finally we reached Chantry at 2:51 AM and I was tired. Even the blinding lights and party-like atmosphere of the aid station couldn't wake me up. Or perhaps I was just starting to feel nervous for the notoriously difficult final quarter of the race. My feet were destroyed. My mind was numb and my eyesight was faded from the previous hours spent focusing on the downhill technical terrain aided only by headlamp lumens. The sight of Matt made me smile and I could see he was anxious to begin his pacing duties.  My adorable friend Chantal was volunteering all night at the aid station and she thrust a cup of some unknown noodle dish in my hand which I robotically consumed. I washed it down with my standard ultra event caffeine fix of a Starbucks Double Shot espresso can. I said goodbye to TBone the same way we greeted 20 miles previously, with a gigantic hug. TBone, I am so thankful for your company out there; I enjoyed our deep thoughts shared about band-aids and railroad track adventures, camera-shy scorpion trail buddies, and neon yellow hair, and I promise to return the Double Double delicacy at the halfway point of your next event. True love is middle of the night juicy blister popping without even making a disgusted squeamish face.

As you can see, I am not a woman of few words when it comes to writing, but if I was forced to sum up the AC100 course in seven words, it would be this: The real work begins at mile 75.

As we left Chantry, Matt described the next section to me as a gradual climb followed by a steeper climb up Mt. Wilson and it was exactly that. Although the Mt. Wilson trail was only 3.5 miles, my legs were by this point trashed and I began to unravel.  I whined. I may have even cried a bit. I stifled continuous bouts of nausea. I failed to take in calories and neglected the water in my handhelds. My bloody knees screamed at me, the blisters on my feet felt like demonic flames. I was incoherently exhausted. We maniacally wrestled hordes of murderous mosquitos. But Matt is my rock. He provided the perfect pacer combination of whip-cracking "let's do work!" mentality laced with positive encouraging compliments. This man knows me.

Dead Man's Bench, Top of Mt. Wilson

To further extend my dire suffering in this section, it is an everlasting ten miles between Chantry and the next aid station, Idlehour, and this distance of just 1/10th of the entire race took me four hours to complete. Four hours! But I never lost confidence in my ability to finish, it simply was never an option. I remained present in the mile I was currently in and pushed through the pain knowing the climb would soon end and the suffering would ease. And just as it did, the sunrise beckoned us, its rays reawakening my sleepless mind and recharging my spirits. After nourishing our bodies with much needed calories, Matt and I carried on past Idlehour (mile 84) while resuming our usual silly banter.

Gutting it out.

Again Matt warned me that this section to Sam Merrill Checkpoint would involve climbing and I naively answered that "Nothing can be worse than Mt. Wilson!". At first the trail weaved around a lush green oasis alongside a delicately flowing stream, and then I swear, the second the sun decided it was time to turn up the thermostat, the endless exposed switchbacks commenced. Enter bonk moment number two. With each turn I felt more dehydrated, more overheated, more exhausted and weak. And again Matt knew exactly how to lure me to the aid station, intermixing terms of endearment with forceful orders. We climbed and climbed and I began to recognize this section of trail from my required trail maintenance back in June. My Garmin had long since expired (I forgot to charge it at Chilao) so I asked him how much further, knowing I was growing critically overheated. His answer of just a half mile did not match what I knew this section to be and I became angry.  This was the third time the length of the trail drastically differed (by more than a mile) from what we were told leaving the previous aid station.  All I could do was put my head down and trudge through the 90+ degree heat to the ice I knew that would be waiting at Sam Merrill. I recall reassuring Matt that once we got a few minutes to rest and refuel and cool down at the aid station I knew I would be okay, and he trusted me.

However, when we arrived at that mile 89 pit stop, they were out of ice and my heart sank. My amazing pacer did his best to cool my core by dumping water on my head and rinsing off my legs and that was sufficient. I felt further relief knowing that the remainder of the race would be downhill, I knew I could handle that.  I pushed down a GU, stomached some crackers and a banana and we exited Sam Merrill, positive that I could finish the final 11 miles within the necessary time frame.

We began a gentle turkey trot, a pace I could maintain through the searing pain of my shredded feet and bruised knees and I felt confident and relieved that the worst was over, but no less than a quarter mile later, I realized I was mistaken. Sure, the final ten miles were down a slope, however, the trail was distraught with harsh rocks, made further difficult by the recent flooding that washed the smoother surfaces into a craggy foot-placement nightmare. My uphill pace now outperformed my downhill speed, as every single step ignited abominable pain. "Just do the work. Get legs." I kept repeating to myself. I frequently asked Matt the remaining distance and calculated and recalculated the required pace needed to finish by cutoff. I did this over and over and over, as we tediously made our way towards the finish line in Altadena. Several times he'd look back at me to see me gritting my teeth, eyes squinted, a look of pure pain on my face.  The heat grew ever oppressive. The awareness that we were just a 10k away from the sweet finish line instinctively caused our cadence to increase.  All we had to do was finish.  We got to the Millard aid station at mile 95.5 in better spirits and stood there for about a minute, pushing a GU and downing some Coke, even laughing a bit.

The final five miles were awash in positivity and reflection. Thoughts about all the hours I'd spent training for this event over the last year circled in my mind: Several climbs up and down Mt. Baldy, four training races, a year dedicated to improving my psychological well-being, of escaping the dark grasp of depression. Every step of this 100 mile journey was earned, through grit and grind and gratitude. Tears of both happiness and relief clung to my dusty eyes as we hobbled up the streets of Altadena and into Loma Alta Park where the finish line coaxed. I could hear the crowd and could no longer hear even a whisper of the negative voices that filled my head throughout the previous night. Finally, at 1:14 PM, with just 46 minutes to spare, I crossed that illustrious finish line, earning my position as one of only 98 finishers (21 females!) of this year's AC100.

Coming into the Finish!

I could not have finished without the solid assistance from Matt. He had the difficult pacing duty, when my brain was mush and my attitude was far beyond lively conversation. Even though he had just finished the extremely difficult Tahoe Rim Trail 100 only two weeks prior, he was there wholly for me, to work together and that is utterly what we did. He is the definition of selfless. I am forever indebted and thankful.

Pasadena, just after finishing.

Anyone who runs long distances is frequently asked, "Why do you run 100 miles? Why do you choose to subject yourself to such pain? What is it that you are seeking?". My answer is always this: It is not about the pain. It is seeing how far you can push yourself, to escape known comforts and strip yourself down to your raw core, to discover who you truly are, when all you have is your instincts and courage. It is also aesthetically beautiful out there on mountain trails, more beautiful than anything you can capture on film, and the only way to discover this richness is to escape society and get dirty on a trail, to put in work. Can't wait for the opportunity to capture these emotions again. Resilient.

Additional pictures from this adventure can be viewed on my Instagram @smushtush